You’re Under Arrest

“Move on. You can’t shoot here.”

The cop came out of nowhere while we were rolling.

It was a gray, drizzly day in May. We were scheduled to shoot a segment for CNN’s World Beat, an international music show featuring artists ranging from Tony Bennett and David Bowie to U2.

We went to the Sean John’s headquarters in the Garment District, preparing to shoot Sean Combs, P. Diddy, Puff Daddy, whatever name he was using that week.

Our host, Brooke, an actor and model, often taped her stand-ups on city streets. Diddy hadn’t arrived yet. The rain had just stopped, and the pavement still glistened, so we went outside to shoot.

You’ve probably noticed how many outdoor scenes look like they were shot right after a rain. That’s a common Hollywood trick called a “wet-down.” Spray the streets, let the light bounce, reflections pop, and colors glow.

This time, nature handled it for us. The rain was real, and so was what came next.

Brooke’s voice cut through the hum of traffic as she walked down the block delivering her lines. That’s when a New York City cop walked up between my camera and Brooke in the middle of the take.

"Move on. You can’t shoot here.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“You can’t film on the sidewalk. Do you have a permit?”

“We’re a CNN news crew,” I said. “We don’t need one.”

As a handheld news crew on public property, we understood that we didn’t need a permit as long as we weren’t blocking traffic.

We weren’t blocking anything.

The officer didn’t care. He stepped closer.

Brooke started writing down his name and badge number. He snapped at her, spelling it like he wanted it remembered.

“MCDERMOTT. M-C-D-E-R-M-O-T-T.”

I raised my camera and hit record.

He saw it.

That’s when everything changed.

He lunged toward me. His summons book slammed into my lens. Before I could react, he twisted my arm behind my back.

“Now you’re creating a public disturbance,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”

“Are you serious?” I yelled. “Under arrest for what?”

No answer.

The cuffs came on, cold metal biting into my wrists. Too tight. He called for backup.

I didn’t move.

My soundman pulled the camera off my shoulder and kept rolling.

The audio cable came loose. The whole thing was recorded in silence. No one would hear it, but everyone could see it.

McDermott shoved me against the building, using the weight of his body to pin me there. He read me my rights.

People stopped, stared, and hurried by. For them, it was just another day on 39th Street.

Brooke called the CNN office.

A squad car pulled up.

He walked me over with my hands behind my back, pushed my head down, guided me into the back seat, then slid in beside me.

On the ride to the precinct, I asked him to loosen the cuffs. They were digging into my wrists.

He didn’t.

Arrested for shooting a stand-up. I almost laughed.

At the precinct, the desk sergeant sat perched on his desk. He looked down at me, then at McDermott, then back to me.

He paused, then shrugged.

“Do you know what’s going on here?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

McDermott went through my pockets.

He took out my wallet, driver’s license, and cash. He counted the cash, noted the amount, and returned it to the wallet.

Then he pulled out a small tin from my pocket and opened it. It was filled with little white pills.

“What’s this?”

“Starbucks mints,” I said.

He held it in his hand, turned it over, then looked at me. For a second, I thought he might call it something else. At that point, I believed he could call it anything he wanted.

He didn’t. Not on that day.

He frisked me from head to toe and handcuffed me to a metal pole in a holding room.

In the adjacent cell, two scantily dressed working women could walk around and sit on a bench.

I couldn't.

I stood there, cold and shivering, trying to decide if any of this was real.

McDermott walked out and left me.

Then another cop walked in, grinning. “Your crew is waiting in the lobby,” he said.

He looked down at my feet.

“So, what did he arrest you for? Wearing those clogs?”

He laughed, but I didn’t.

At that point, it could’ve been anything. The clogs, the camera, the mints. No one was going to stop him.

No one had asked me a question when I arrived. No one challenged McDermott.

They stood by him. My crew stood with me.

Brooke had been right there on the sidewalk, writing down his badge number and arguing with him, yet he didn’t touch her.

He took me.

Forty minutes later, McDermott returned with two summonses.

One for disorderly conduct and another for obstruction and failure to comply. He never explained how what we’d done amounted to either offense.

He did tell me to sign on the line.

I refused.

He wrote “Refused.”

With a court date set, I was free to go.

We weren’t doing anything wrong, but a badge said we were.

I walked out that day. I had a crew, a network, and a lawyer in my corner. Not everyone does.

I’ve filmed on military bases and in prisons. Inside the UN and at foreign embassies. I’ve had Secret Service clearance and filmed prime ministers, kings, and several U.S. presidents.

None of that mattered.

I wanted to fight it. I wrote letters and looked for a way to push back. Then 9/11 happened. The city changed overnight.

With police officers being hailed as heroes, pursuing a lawsuit over my arrest no longer felt right.

A week before my court date, a CNN attorney called. The charges had been dropped. The case was closed.

I walked away clean.

The Diddy interview never happened.

I ended up with something even better.

This story.